


Monochrome Kiss

by lar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angel!Lock, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, M/M, Romance, demon!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lar/pseuds/lar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very old and powerful angel, Sherlock has been living in London for centuries, spending his life helping people in need and destroying demons that dare cross his path. His routine is broken when a young demon by the name of John thwarts his perception of himself by refusing to die in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invasion

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo!
> 
> First of all, I'd like to thank my awesome beta [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm) for the best of feedback. 
> 
> This story will be a long journey and I hope we'll enjoy it together!

Dull. It’d been increasingly dull. Years and years, he’d fought demons of all shapes and sizes to keep rid London of evil. He’d even fought other angels who had the audacity to think they could boss him around. He’d never stood for that. Even Mycroft had given up on trying to control him, and had become a recluse. He didn’t exactly know why. After all, he was aware that Mycroft was more powerful than himself, even if he’d never admit it out loud. At least, with him around, there had been someone to rebel against. Now it was ever so dull.

He continued helping people, of course, and sometimes when an unsuspecting fresh demon naively strayed into his territory, he chased them off easily, but there was no challenge in either of those activities. He was getting restless. There were storms brewing inside him, even though outwardly, he looked like he was the embodiment of peace and had grown indifferent to the ways of the world he had inhabited for the past few millennia.

 

He sauntered around the city, sick of the rain, sick of the calm, sick of people who thought they were positively wicked just because every now and then they did a bit of mischief. Sherlock could crush them without the slightest exertion. He needed something new. A demon who was strong enough to be a worthwhile opponent and crazy enough to think he could beat Sherlock.

His steps took him where they usually did. He had no idea why he always found himself in the crowded district of Marylebone. He’d never enjoyed company much, so he used to go there sometimes, to let the quiet murmur of water carry him away from the world of humans and angels and all manner of other creatures. Now Tybourne was no longer there, and the area was more crowded than ever with lots of commercial buildings and people buzzing about, yet he still ended up there every time he left his flat on Montague Street to walk around.

 

He turned in the direction he’d come from to resist whatever ploy Fate had been playing on him ever since the founding of Londinium. Just as he was about to exit the suffocating street he was on, he felt a tingling sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Could it be? A demon crossing into his territory? He was sure he still knew how being near one of those infernal things felt, even though among the thirteen million Londoners, there hadn’t been a demon- not for very long - since he’d successfully _persuaded_ a Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton to depart from his hometown for a different sort of world - one from which you didn’t return.

Sherlock glided towards the building that was calling to him without a sound, without conscious effort. He looked up dumbly at the first floor window and waited. A demon had entered his city without defying him out in the open. Was he hoping to stay hidden? That could not be possible. They knew that their presence would be felt. Maybe this one was sort of demented, or just had a death wish. Because surely taking on Sherlock Holmes was a death wish. It certainly was a way to gain eternal fame. He could see the articles already: _the first kill by Mr. Sherlock Holmes of London in over a century. What was the poor bloke thinking?_

 

 Just as he realized he’d been standing in the middle of the pavement like a maniac staring at the residence of what was almost certainly a demon, the window opened and a blonde head popped out. Something that could not be called anything other than a shit-eating grin was plastered upon the man’s strangely human face.

“Hullo!” he called down to the street.

Sherlock started at the warm greeting he received from the demon. He opened his mouth to let out some sort of retort to the impudent man but before he could reply, the demon ploughed on, looking as if nothing was the matter.

“Well, don’t just stand down there, mate! Come up! I’ve put the kettle on.”

Sherlock bristled. “Oh, I’m coming up, alright.”

The demon’s grin grew wider if possible, and he disappeared from the window to buzz Sherlock in.

 

He pushed open the black door that said 221B on it, his sharp mind taking in the strange fact that the building was named as if it was a flat. However, he was nothing if not efficient. He didn’t let his thoughts dawdle on trivial things, especially when there was a demon to take care of, and an obnoxious demon at that. He shook his head slightly as he climbed the stairs. It didn’t make sense; a demon could not be obnoxious. They were nothing, and nothing could not move Sherlock to feel. He didn’t feel. He’d never felt hatred before, not for even the worst of them. They could not get under his skin, and this poor bloke was going to either leave or die in a few minutes, so there was no need to get agitated.

He pushed open the door that was already ajar and breezed inside as if he owned the place. The demon entered from what seemed to be the kitchen just a second later, carrying two cups of tea.

“Ah! There you are. Welcome to my humble abode, Mr. Angel Face. I’m John.”

He set one of the cups on the small table next to the leather armchair by the fireplace and took the seat across from it. He blew on his steaming tea and beckoned Sherlock to the leather chair.

“Please, sit down.”

Sherlock snorted. “As if.”

His eyes flicked around the living room in the space of a few seconds and took in everything there was to know about the seemingly mad man in front of him, who was serenely drinking his tea, watching Sherlock.

 

“What sort of a demon calls itself “John”? Do you actually think there is a God and you are his chosen one, because you have strange powers?” Sherlock twisted his lower lip and nodded to himself. “I guess that would explain why you’re here. I wouldn’t wish mental illness on my worst enemy.”

John laughed. “I can assure you, I’m not mad. As for the name, I think it’s amusing. People tend to associate demons with the _Devil_.”

“So you thought ‘Why don’t I call myself _graced by God_?’” Sherlock deadpanned.

John sat up, cocked his head slightly to the side and looked at Sherlock with an innocence that could not be genuine even if he _had been_ graced by God. “You _don’t_ find it humourous?”

When Sherlock rolled his eyes, John grinned the smuggest grin the world had ever seen and relaxed back into his tattered looking chair that looked like it’d been there since 1895.

“So I’m guessing you’re not sitting down or drinking your tea. What can I do for you?”

“You could either say your farewells to London, or to life altogether. Let no one claim I’m inflexible.”

John’s eyes shone with a manic glee. “Indeed. How very gracious of you.”

“So what will it be?”

“Well, seeing as I’ve just finished a very long and tiresome journey, I feel like I deserve a rest before I move on again.” He pretended to think it over for a second. “How about I relax for - say a few decades? Then I promise I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You must be very young, _John_ ,” Sherlock spit his name, “and possibly raised by wolves. It seems like you don’t know who I am.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Sherlock Holmes. I won’t deny that I’m young, but even babies know your name. What’s more, I also know what you want.”

“Good to know that you can actually hear me.”

John smiled at him with pity as if he was missing something. Incensed, Sherlock turned his mind to John’s. No one could cut out Sherlock Holmes - well, except Mycroft but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

 

John looked at him expectantly to see what he would do, now that he refused to play along. _Aha!_ Sherlock thought. _I got him_. He strode to the leather chair and plopped himself down on it.  They watched each other, John looking as if he owned the world, quite unaware his mind was being penetrated, Sherlock slowly sipping on the splendid Earl Grey and letting John’s thoughts flow to him.

_“Look at his eyes and those cheekbones. Dear God...”_

Sherlock huffed a small laugh, which made John raise his eyebrow at him quizzically.

_“What?”_

When Sherlock didn’t explain, John continued staring at him, lost in his thoughts again.

_“What a strange beast. He is so fiery. He should’ve been a demon of lust instead of an angel. I wonder how he’d be in bed. I’d let him dominate me there. ”_

Sherlock choked on his tea which happily interrupted John’s train of thought again. He quickly cut the connection off, not wanting to give himself away. What the hell was this? He’d heard people and angels think of him the same way before but a demon? Never a demon. Demons generally didn’t have a thought in their tiny minds but “ _Destroy him_ ” or “ _Aaaaargh!_ ” Their simplicity had always bored him but now it seemed much preferable. Apparently, this was where his comfort zone ended; with an intelligent and self-satisfied demonling who wanted to be dominated by him in bed.

 

He stood up, having had enough of this very discomfiting back-and-forth. John followed his example. Sherlock looked into the demon’s dark blue eyes and saw the crinkles around them that were indicative of another vexing grin. The angel’s eyes began to slowly turn white. He waited for the dark blue in John’s eyes to disappear to black as well, but the change didn’t come.

“Oh! Not so flexible as you said!” John’s voice mocked. “You didn’t accept my choice, did you? Oh well! Go ahead. What must be done must be done.”

Now completely sure the boy was out of his mind, Sherlock turned his eyes completely white as they bore into John’s. He waited to see the body in front of him to drop lifeless onto the floor, however no such thing happened. John continued leering at him as if he was being amusing.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Holmes? Having technical problems?”

The corner of his maddening mouth again quirked up. _For fuck’s sake, how much does this man grin?_ And now he was cursing too. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that he couldn’t kill, he could also feel anger.

“What? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. You saw my eyes.”

“I - What?”

John ushered him to the door of his flat, his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. He was so shook up that he didn’t even notice he was being touched and just moved towards the staircase as directed.

“It was really good to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I hope we can do this again.”

He pushed Sherlock out gently and closed the door behind him. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, his mind completely blank, with a gaping, goldfish-like expression on his face.

  
This was interesting. And he was so screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the fic is taken from Kuroshitsuji's opening song "Monochrome no Kiss". I thought it was appropriate what with demons and all :)
> 
> You can message me about anything you wish to on [here.](http://lar3000.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Defeated, Shamed and Driven Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock ponders a way out of his predicament.

Strolling through the mists of Dartmoor as if everything was fine and dandy would have made Sherlock feel ashamed, _if_ he had the capability to feel ashamed. Fortunately, he was not burdened with the feeling, and saw it all as a problem to be solved. He’d literally received what he’d asked for. So, there was no cause to complain. He was on a _retreat_ to come up with a clever plan. That was all. The only trouble was, nothing was readily occurring to him.

He’d been waiting for news from Anderson, and he’d certainly had enough time to devise a cunning scheme in the meantime, a scheme that accounted for both his hypotheses. However, his mind had failed him for the first time in his long life. The issue was either with his prowess, or - he shuddered to even think about this - John was simply more powerful than him. There was no other possibility.

Only ten minutes prior to his leisurely walk, he’d heard from Donovan instead of Anderson. He’d known what that meant even before Donovan uttered the whole of her first word. Anderson had fallen. John had killed him.

 

Now, it was no surprise to Sherlock that someone as weak as Anderson could be killed by a demon. Of course, that was beside the point. The news told him only one thing of import - that John had no interest in killing _him_. It was clearly a power play; a power play with the most powerful angel in London. Sherlock would find it admirable, were he not the one being toyed with. John wanted to show everyone that he could drive Sherlock out of his home, the city that had been both his sanctuary and his prison for many centuries.

 

He could never bear to leave London. Though he was ever inclined towards boredom, and to abandon what he found boring, with London, he endured it. He even relished in it. To Sherlock, it felt like a powerful charm, designed to keep him at bay, to stop him from controlling the world and beyond. If it was indeed so, it could be of nobody’s but Mycroft’s design. Was it possible that Mycroft didn’t know Sherlock had no interest in the ways of the world? To be on top, to be responsible for the well-being of an entire planet, full of idiots? Sometimes it felt to him like Mycroft was omniscient. But he knew that in reality, omniscience was a myth, and that however powerful, Mycroft was still one of them.

 

In any case, his brother was no longer the most interesting issue to ponder. John Watson was constantly occupying his mind, and rightfully so. Why was he even thinking about leaving at a time like this? If he were to leave, it’d be of his own accord, not because a creature who was a slave to his own desires forced him. It was time to concentrate on the matter at hand.

John had the ability to kill, however did not wish to kill him. He meant to take control of London with Sherlock still alive, to show everyone how pitiful the angel was. He was aware of his abilities. He had at least guessed Sherlock couldn’t hurt him; nevertheless he was still foolhardy to a fault.

Before going any further with his analysis, Sherlock needed to see if his powers were still intact. Either he’d contracted a rare disease - he wasn’t even sure if such a thing was possible - and had lost the ability to kill, in which case he’d have to find a way to cure himself, or he’d search for a way to dispose of an immensely powerful demon, the likes of which he’d never encountered before.

 

He climbed into the Dewer’s Hollow, a muddy hole bursting with a demonic sort of energy. His footsteps were loud, announcing the arrival of an enemy. It was time for a test after being idle for so long, a time to either perish or change drastically. He locked eyes with the gigantic hound that had appeared in front of him and made his move.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was back at the Inn, muddied and bored. Victor looked up at him from his bed as he entered the room. Sherlock ignored the gaze and started getting out of his wet clothes.

“Why are you here?”

“Do you have to be so terrible?”

“You like it.”

“Yes, I do. God help me.”

Sherlock laughed a hollow laughter. _God. Everyone’s turned faithful these days._

He slid off his shirt and his trousers with his back turned to Victor. He knew the man was staring at his arse, without even bothering to read him. He didn’t mean to be a pervert ogling his friend - Sherlock knew Victor considered him one - It was just his pathetic feelings oozing out from the inside.

 

“Do you know a demon called John Watson?”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

He pulled on an old t-shirt and turned to lie down by the other angel.

Victor suddenly sat up. “Wait, wait. Who’s he?”

“A demon, Victor. I’ve just said. Are you sure your brain is still functioning?”

“Yeah, I got that. Why are you asking about a demon?”

“No reason.”

He turned his back to Victor to settle on his side and allowed him to put an arm around his waist and snuggle up.

The man whined softly, “Sherloock.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

“Why are you here?”

Sherlock sighed at his question being turned on himself. The man was intent on finding out one thing or another.

“You’re trying my patience, Victor.”

“But you never leave London.”

“Yes, that’s why I did. I was bored and needed a change.”

“You’re always bored.”

“And did Mycroft wait more than five minutes to send you after me?”

“You know I come because I want to.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t have known to come if you hadn’t talked to him. And anyway, I couldn’t care less if it was tenderness that led you to check up on me, or duty. Either sleep or get out.”

 

Victor fell silent at that, clearly hurt by Sherlock’s harshness. He didn’t know what else the man expected. Their relationship hadn’t changed one iota in the three hundred years they’d known each other. Sherlock never turned him down, because he never attempted anything more than clinging onto his body and falling asleep next to him. Yet, Victor had never given up on his deeper feelings. Sherlock could see that, even though he hadn’t bothered to read Victor since the 18th century.

Sherlock had pitied Victor then, for using his feeble powers on one such as him. They hadn’t worked, of course. Victor didn’t even know Sherlock was aware of that mishap. No one willingly told anyone about their specialty. Over the years, due to the nature of his skills, Sherlock had found out about the specialty of many angels and demons, one among them being Victor. He had the ability to make people fall in love with each other, an Eros of sorts. And he had tried to make Sherlock fall for him the first time they met. Needless to say, it hadn’t even made a dent in Sherlock’s nonexistent heart. Ironically, the angel hadn’t even needed to “cast the spell” on himself. His love was not hand-made.

 

Hours later, Victor was still sleeping behind him as if he was a human who couldn’t live without turning off for at least six hours every night, and Sherlock had come to a decision on what to do about the intolerable creature who had recently bested him.

It was past time for a family reunion. His brother owned a vast library Sherlock used to get lost in for days and reading for hours upon end. There must have been a trick to getting rid of someone more powerful than him, or perhaps a recording of some other demon like John Watson. Granted, no one before him had probably lived long enough to find such a solution after coming up against a demon more powerful than themselves, but it was the only idea he could come up with. He was certainly not going to ask Mycroft.

 

He got up off the bed in a swift motion, caring naught for Victor’s sleep.

The man awakened with a groan, “Whaaa-”

“For heaven’s sake, pipe down.”

He quickly put on a clean shirt and suit, and wrapped his coat around himself, feeling Victor’s bleary eyes on him as usual.

“Come back to bed.”

“No, I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Mycroft’s.”

“What?”

Sherlock opened the door but turned to look at the dumbfounded expression on the other angel’s face.

“Why?”

“Can’t a person visit his brother?”

“Not that person.” Victor pointed at him.

Sherlock grinned. “I’m going to the library.”

“To look for this John Watson?”

Sherlock’s face fell.

“Why does a demon out of your territory bother you so much?”

He laughed cruelly. “Territory? I don’t have a _territory_. I’m not a politician.”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock huffed.

“If he’s so destructive that he’s caught your attention, why don’t you just go and kill him, Sherlock? What’s stopping you?”

He considered the man lying in his bed in nothing but a pair of pants. He wasn’t his lover. What business did he have in his bed, almost naked?

“Sherlock?”

Why was he even noticing the state of his undress and thinking words like “lover” in the first place? Maybe John _had_ infected him with a demonic curse.

“I- Why should I? As you rightly pointed out, he’s not in my _territory_.” He tied his scarf around his neck. “I’m going now. Please don’t show up in London any time soon. I really can’t be bothered. Goodnight.”

He turned on his feet and slammed the door behind him, leaving a no doubt flummoxed Victor behind.

  
He couldn’t let anyone know what was happening, not even harmless and pitiful Victor. He was going to find a way out of this problem and be at peace in his hateful home again. Sherlock Holmes would never run from a demon. Sherlock Holmes would never run, period.


	3. Hundred Years' War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock first visits Mycroft, then John.

Whenever Sherlock visited a library, his world was always reduced to the shelves around him; real life disappeared from his thoughts completely. He had a quiet, calm feeling that separated him from the tedious troubles of everything else. Especially in Mycroft’s library, which was the size of a small town, he was isolated and immersed in the story of whatever he was reading.

Only this time, it was a bit different. Concentrate, he did. Yet, his mind brought with it a remnant of the outside world due to the nature of his studies. His anger at John Watson stayed with him the entire time he perused the ancient volumes Mycroft owned. It fueled him as he went through as many books as he could.

He came across a few accounts about stopping forces bigger than yourself, however, they were nothing more than suggestions, hidden in the small corners of philosophy books. They reminded him of his conversations with a philosopher, whose name he long ago erased from his memories, and how the poor man kept trying to convince Sherlock that God existed through the use of logical arguments. Like those conversations, these suggestions were proving to be utterly useless.

Eventually, he chanced upon an idea that merited some consideration. Even if it wouldn’t help him kill John, he hoped to at least subdue the demon with it. The only problem was, it required the help of another; someone whose skill affected the behaviour of others. Sherlock would have to borrow an allegiance and use a spell - something he’d never been reduced to before - to suggest to John that leaving London was the best choice for him.

 

Just as he was contemplating how to go about procuring this specific kind of help, Mycroft entered the library with a signature condescending smile on his face.

“Hello, brother dear. It’s a surprise to see you here.”

Sherlock bristled. “Piss off.”

Mycroft looked down upon his younger brother who was sitting on the floor with books spread around him. Sherlock quickly hid the cover of the book he was holding.

“Come now, Sherlock. How is that going to help you?”

“You don’t have X-ray vision, Mycroft.”

“Perhaps not, but I have other skills.”

Sherlock scrambled to get up off the floor, but he knew he couldn’t be faster than Mycroft’s gigantic mouth.

“What are you looking for?”

The words spilled out of him without his consent. “A way to kill a demon stronger than me.”

Mycroft’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. Sherlock turned to run, to get out of the hearing range of his brother. However, the library was very quiet and unfortunately, had great acoustics.

“Don’t go, Sherlock. Stay for a while.”

Sherlock paused, leaving didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore for some reason.

“Who’s stronger than you?”

“John Watson.”

Mycroft scrunched up his face. “Who the bloody hell is that?”

“A young demon in London.”

“Is that all?”

“No.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

“No.” repeated Sherlock, trying to resist his brother’s influence, even though there really was no hope. He could, at least, keep some things to himself, because, surely, Mycroft wasn’t going to ask if the demon wanted to bed him.

“How do you know he’s stronger than you?”

“I couldn’t kill him.”

Mycroft’s jaw dropped open a minimal amount at the new information. _Well, that’s something._

“I didn’t know you were capable of surprise.”

“Speaking of capabilities…”

The angel gritted his teeth, as his brother gave him another smug smile. He was still standing by the books that Sherlock had left in haste. He leant down and picked up the one which gave Sherlock his interesting idea and flicked through the pages.

“These won’t work. If they had, we’d all be working with a partner now. You can’t appropriate someone else’s skill. In any case, I won’t do it.”

Sherlock tramped across the room and got into his brother’s personal space. “Who said anything about you?”

“Please, Sherlock. Give me some credit. ‘Behaviour alteration’. Who else do you know who can do that?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but Mycroft cut him off.

“Besides demons, that is.”

He shut his mouth again, very much annoyed at the triumphant expression on His Idiotic Highness’s face.

“You’re still alive. So I can see he’s no danger to you. Learn to get along, dear brother. Maybe, you can rule together.”

“I don’t _rule_.”

Mycroft waved a hand as if to say it didn’t matter what he thought and turned to walk back out of the library. Sherlock followed behind, not quite sure if it was time to leave yet.

“I can’t let him stay, Mycroft.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You could-”

“I couldn’t possibly. Going all the way to London to force a harmless demon to leave.. It seems excessive.”

“He killed Anderson!”

Mycroft turned around unexpectedly. “And what do you care about Anderson?”

“I- I don’t- I just-”

“Yes, exactly. You don’t. Look around, Sherlock. No one cares about killing demons anymore. Aside from the one you’ve killed last night, no one’s even bothered to look one in the eyes for over fifty years, unless it was in self-defence. Let it go.”

Sherlock stopped for a second to see if he did indeed feel like letting the matter go. Thankfully, Mycroft didn’t care to alter his behaviour more than it took him to learn what was going on. The only thing that mattered to the man was information, and he’d already got it.

“You’re an angel.” He tried one last time.

“Yes. One that doesn’t give a fig about his baby brother’s playmates.” He turned around again. “I’m tired now, Sherlock. Go play on your own.”

He disappeared behind the entrance to the library, leaving a very angry Sherlock to stew in his own agitation and frustration. He grabbed the book with the spell, ignoring what his all-knowing prick of a brother had said, and left the castle, not knowing why he’d thought it was a good idea to come here in the first place.

 

Back in London, he found himself on Baker Street, the book still clutched in his hands, even though he’d already memorized the words for the charm. The light to John’s flat was on, looking as inviting as it did the first time he’d walked by the place. He opened the door, not caring about the noise the bolts made, since he knew John could feel his presence anyhow.

When he entered the flat, he came face to face with a scene, stranger than any he’d seen in the recent years. John Watson was sitting on his old chair with a naked woman on his lap, clearly not very concerned that Lestrade was there, watching them with a mesmerized look on his dull face.

Sherlock cleared his throat to get their attention. John’s eyes flicked over to him, as the woman attempted to cover herself in a hurry. She grabbed her clothes and ran out of the room.

John grinned at Sherlock, with that incredible grin of his, as he zipped up his trousers. Lestrade was glancing from Sherlock to where he was looking.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm- What?” Sherlock realized where he was staring and averted his eyes. “What?”

Lestrade shrugged, as John cut into their aimless conversation.

“Anything I can help you with, gentlemen?”

Sherlock ignored him and turned to Lestrade once again.

“Were you just standing here, watching him have sex?”

“I’d just come in!”

“There’s nothing wrong with watching me have sex.” He turned to Lestrade. “You’ve got good taste, Mr?”

“Lestrade.”

“Yes, Mr. Lestrade. What did you think? Maybe, we can convince our friend here-”

“Yes, very funny. He will be leaving now.” He started pushing the angel out of the door.

“Mr. Holmes!” John called faux-appalled. “Please, I try to be hospitable to my guests.” He turned to the other man. “Mr. Lestrade, I hope we can talk some other time, but I have an impending business with Mr. Holmes, and it really can’t wait.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the show and continued pushing Lestrade out the door.

“Yes, good. Get out.”

He’d have to deal with that idiot’s questions regarding John now. Did everything have to go wrong all at once?

 

John waited until the downstairs door closed, and then invited Sherlock to take his seat across from him. Sherlock saw no reason to decline, since, apparently, they were one of those pairs who discussed things calmly, even though any second could mean death for one of them.

John’s gaze slid to the book he was holding.

“Spells?”

Sherlock opened the book to the page with the incantation and started muttering it. John watched, smiling as if Sherlock was doing something very amusing and not trying to kill him.

When it was done, the angel looked up at the demon.

“Why do you even want to be here?”

“I’ve always wanted to live in London. Good nightlife, interesting places,” He looked Sherlock over. “Handsome men.”

“Maybe, you could try New York, instead.”

He smiled knowingly. “Suggestion? That what you can do? What did you need the book for, then?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, he pressed on.

“Oh, no. So, that’s not what you can do. That’s why you needed the book. Oh well.” He shrugged. “You tried.”

“Why won’t you die?”

John grinned, not smug this time, but satisfied. “I have no idea. The first time I came across an angel, I thought I was done for. But here I am.”

“You killed him.”

“Her. But yes, I did. And many others after her.”

“Why not me?”

John leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his breath ghosting over Sherlock’s mouth. “I wouldn’t presume to touch a hair on Sherlock Holmes’ wings.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as the demon laughed and sat back.

“You’re obsessed with legends and myths made up by humans who are scared of death.”

“Aren’t you?”

The angel looked into John’s dark blue eyes, knowing he wasn’t asking about the legends and the myths.

“No.”

“I was. Before I knew no one could kill me, that is.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Oh, I hope you don’t agree with me, Sherlock- May I call you Sherlock? I feel like we’re very close now that we shared our deepest secrets.” And there his mouth went again, stretching, showing his white, orderly teeth. “I hope you don’t agree with me, because if you think I can’t be killed, then you won’t show your pretty face in my messy little flat.”

He leaned forward again, making Sherlock lean back a bit, afraid the man would- _would what?_ He felt something beating in his chest, not quite sure what was happening.

“You’re beautiful.”

The angel got up off the chair in a hurry, half-running towards the stairs.

“You’re preposterous. And I’ll be back.”

“I hope so.” He heard John call behind him as he was back on the street once again.

 

He leaned against the door and put his hand on his throat. He was burning. What was wrong with him? Was that John’s skill, then? Making a spluttering fool out of anyone he wanted? Making them uncomfortable and uneasy? He sat on the threshold and turned his thoughts to the demon. He had to find out what his skill was. Maybe, that way was where his ticket lay.

For a moment or two, he couldn’t hear anything but silence. Then, his mind was flooded with words he had never imagined could be said to him.

_Oh God, yes! Suck me, Sherlock! Just like that, yes! Yes! You look so good with my cock in your mouth. Who knew an angel could be this dirty?_

Sherlock stood stock still, forgetting to even cut the connection as John Watson clearly masturbated to the thoughts of Sherlock fellating him. He listened until the litany of obscenities came to an end, and a loud grunt floated down to him from the open window of the flat. John’s mind was once again silent, as the cogs in the angel’s mind began to turn again. He stood up and tottered away from the building, not paying attention to where he was going.

He wasn’t on Baker Street. His mind was playing him a scene: Him, sitting between a pair of short legs dotted with weak golden hair; his eyes on the erect penis he’d caught a peek of earlier; a small hand on his head, encouraging him to take it into his mouth; a voice in his ears, _Suck me, Sherlock. You know you want to._ He put his mouth on John’s cock and tentatively licked. He heard a moan coming from above. He grinned, took the whole thing into his mouth and then bit into it with all the strength he could muster.

 

The scene dissolved from his mind’s eye, as he stomped in the direction of his flat, even more determined than he’d been before. The suggestion spell might not have worked, but he was sure he could find another way. He was going to find another way. He was going to hurt John Watson. He thought of his daydream once more and smiled. One way or another. He’d hurt him.

 

 


	4. Superbia deinde ira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets lost in his head.

Keeping time was a strange occupation. Sherlock understood the concept, and acknowledged its uses for humans especially, but for him, it remained for the most part unnecessary. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat, he had no reason to be anywhere at any other point than the moment he wished for.

This meant that he had no inkling how long he’d been shut inside his flat obsessing over different ways John Watson could be killed. For all he knew, it could be twenty minutes or twenty decades. When he ventured into his mind palace, nothing could rouse him, unless he was at the end of a train of thought. And in this instance, the trains were freight trains, with wagons that kept appearing one after the other, without any end in sight.

 

The door to his flat was pushed open when he was in such a daze, and admitted fellow angel Greg Lestrade and not-so-fellow angel Sally Donovan.

“Oi, Freak!”

“Sally!” Greg admonished his friend.

“What? He _is_ a freak.”

Greg shook his head slightly, not knowing what he’d done to deserve this. Sally was capable and a good friend, but she was as bull-headed as they came. The moment she’d met Sherlock Holmes, she’d hated him with a fierce passion that Sherlock did not share. The man had just stood there, not even sparing a second glance to Sally; looking at him instead with a questioning look in his eyes, probably wondering why Greg had thought the woman was worth even one second of his time. After that, their relationship consisted of Sally insulting him, or just gritting her teeth whenever she couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and Sherlock mostly ignoring her.  

Greg looked at the man, who was staring out the window with a distant expression on his face, a hand fisted under his chin. He hadn’t even flinched at the sounds of their intrusion. Greg couldn’t tell if he was just pretending to not notice, to see when they would give up and leave, or was too preoccupied to actually notice. He gingerly stepped towards him and shook his shoulder.

“Hey, Sherlock.”

 

After fifteen minutes of shaking the other angel like a leaf, he was about to give up when Sherlock’s eyes finally focused and landed on him without missing a beat.

“It’d be much better for all involved, if your hand wasn’t on my shoulder, Lestrade.”

Greg snatched his hand away as if scalded by fire at the man’s cold tone. Sherlock was generally quite civil to him, but that was no reason to start pushing his luck right now.

Sherlock stood up in a regal way - he was, after all, almost angel royalty - and began pacing around the room, his gaze firmly stuck on Greg.

“What do you want?”

Before he could open his mouth, however, Sally cut in.

“We want to know why your majesty sent Anderson down to be killed, when he is perfectly capable of taking care of his own hang-ups,” she yelled, her voice rising with every syllable.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her and turned back to Greg.

“Get her out of my flat.”

“Sherl-”

“Now, Lestrade.”

Greg turned to escort Sally out of the room, only to be rebuffed by his friend.

“I know the way out, Greg.” She walked out and spun around to face Sherlock again before she closed the door. “You are the worst sort of creature to walk this earth. I wonder what kind of a whimsy of Fate allowed you to be an angel, when truly you are worse than any demon.”

When Greg turned to look at Sherlock after she left, he looked as unruffled as ever.

“You’re not here to ask about Anderson. She was, but you’re not.”

“No - Well, in a way, I am.”

Sherlock waved his hand as if to say go on, and perched on the edge of the chair by the window.

“You - I - Why -”

“Get on with it, Lestrade.”

“Why is that demon alive? Watson, I mean.”

“Is this an existential question? Because I may have gone through a philosophical phase back in the day, but I’m quite over it by now.”

Greg huffed. “You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t, Lestrade. I’m not a mind reader, you know.”

“There is a demon,” He produced a rolled-up newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat. “In London,” He waved the paper around. “Whom you’ve met.” He waved it around again as if to punctuate the sentence. “Yet, he’s still alive. What am I missing here?”

He opened the roll and dropped it on the other angel’s lap, who glanced at it casually and lifted his head once again to fix his gaze on Greg.

“If you’re so bothered by it, by all means, go and kill him. You are the supreme ruler of England, after all.” Greg could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “I have more important things to do than chasing after a youngling demon all over London.”

“But - but - you’d already found him!” He spluttered.

Sherlock turned away to stare out the window, clearly not concerned with the logical fallacy of his argument.

Greg tried again. “Sherlock, I don’t mind him alive. For all I care, you could co-exist peacefully together for an eternity. I’m just worried-”

The man flinched at the sentiment but didn’t turn to face him.

“I’m just curious as to what changed,” he amended.

“Nothing’s changed, including the fact that you’re an idiot. Now go away,” he muttered, exasperated and slightly irritated.

Greg made to leave but heard Sherlock speak once more.

“And stay away from John.”

Surprised at the use of the first name, Greg turned to gape at the back of the angel’s head for a second.

_What the hell?! John?_

_Oh god! I’m gonna be late! Julie will be so mad._

Sherlock watched Lestrade exit the building, worried about his date, the matter with him long forgotten. Still, he could tell that the man was genuinely baffled by his actions. He understood that. In fact, he applauded it. Lestrade was cleverer than most angels. While Sally didn’t care about anything but that sniveling excuse for a man called Anderson, he’d seen the oddity in Sherlock not caring about a demon in London. He was wrong, of course. Sherlock cared. He, well, he more-than-cared. But he couldn’t explain that to Lestrade. His pride would never allow it. He couldn’t admit to being overpowered by someone who’d just been born yesterday - and being let go in the end. He had nothing against charity, yes, that is as long as he was not at the receiving end of it.

He couldn’t let a man who went on _dates_ know about his failures. His mind drifted to the word; date. Humans and angels tended to go on dates - demons only took what they wanted - he knew. Yet, here was another failure of his; he didn’t know why. He’d heard people think about dating, he’d heard them talk about it, too. One of the reasons given was always sex. What was so special about it? Why did they need it? If it was such a constant, why didn’t _he_ crave it?

He’d never even spared it a thought until recently. Maybe, that had been wrong. Maybe, he should’ve thought about it in detail, learnt the process, perhaps even tried it. He always advocated not coming to any conclusion before having enough data. He’d tried eating, sleeping, watching TV, killing, only wounding, dancing, reading, writing, talking incessantly, not making a peep for days on end, playing the violin, playing the piano... He’d always researched, done and decided afterwards, except when it came to sex. Why was that?

He resolved to consider the matter. What were the variables that came into play? His partner would need to be aesthetically pleasing. He liked looking at fair hair. People of smaller stature than him were more acceptable than anyone bigger than him. He’d have to be in control. Someone physically bigger could be trouble in that regard. So it would have to be either a small man or a woman. He thought of a small man with blonde hair, and a mischievous expression. Then, he pictured a blonde woman with the same look in her eyes. He didn’t know where the mischief aspect had come from, but apparently he liked that, as well. He went through the people he knew who fit that description in his mind and the obvious choice was Victor. He was blonde, small, and promiscuous. He would also jump at the chance of Sherlock taking him.

He created a bedroom in his mind palace to see how he’d feel about it. As soon as he started to imagine the act, however, he shuddered. He ran out the room and closed the door behind him forever.

So, he really didn’t want sex. It had only been on his mind because he’d been bombarded with the topic recently. It was expected. He had not witnessed anyone having sex since he’d accidentally caught Mycroft going at it and almost vomited all that he hadn’t had in his stomach. Of course, it was not sex that had repulsed him then, it was his brother. He wasn’t really affected as such by the picture John and the stupid human woman had made. He despised her. For her weakness, that is. Why would anyone climb on to a demon’s lap, willingly? It was his duty, after all. It was his duty to destroy him, so he could protect weak-willed humans. He peeked down at the open newspaper on his lap. _London in Chaos_ , the headline said. So, John had been having fun, leaving a trail of wrecks behind him, of places, possessions and people. The whole population was horrified and was wondering why Sherlock Holmes hadn’t taken care of Watson yet.

However, they were also curious. It seemed John had no shortage of sexual conquests, even with his reputation. On the second page, there was an interview with a man who claimed to have had sex with him.

“Doesn’t he ever do anything but have sex,” he muttered to himself.

Unexpectedly, a voice answered him. “Who doesn’t do anything but have sex?”

Sherlock turned away from the window to see Victor lounging on the sofa.

“What are you doing in London? Haven’t I told you not to come here?”

The other angel sat up. “I’m confused, Sherlock.”

“Well, that’s not an unusual occurrence.”

“I thought you said that that Watson guy wasn’t in London.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And?”

Victor stood up and stepped towards the window. “He is though, isn’t he?”

“Did you come all this way to ask me if John was in London?”

“John?!” He sounded bewildered. “Oh, so you’ve met him, have you?”

Sherlock rose from his chair stiffly, a stormy expression in his eyes he didn’t even get before killing someone. Victor automatically took a step back.

His voice was intimidatingly soft when he spoke. “Would you like to meet him, as well? I’m sure that can be arranged.”

“No - no - I-” Victor retreated a few more steps as Sherlock walked towards him menacingly.

His voice had turned into a growl. “You,” he said, digging a finger into the smaller angel’s chest. “Will never again,” he continued poking at the spot that would kill him if he was a human. “Presume to question me,” He poked again. “Or my actions.”

Victor sagged into the couch he was backed into. Sherlock was looming over him like a dark cloud now.

“You are nothing but an insignificant maggot I felt pity for. Your little feelings will never give you the right to ask me for anything.” He kneeled, so he could look into Victor’s eyes from the same level, as close to the frightened man as he could be without touching him. “ANYTHING!”

Victor winced at the loud voice, never before having seen Sherlock angry.

Sherlock returned to his window-side chair, having ended the conversation. He sensed Victor standing up and stalking to the exit. He paused for a second after he opened the door.

His voice was very quiet when he spoke. “I’m sorry about - “ He gulped. “I - I didn’t think you knew. I’ll get someone to take care of it.”

He, then, closed the door behind him as he left.

 

Sherlock didn’t know why he’d let Victor dare to talk to him that way all these years. Clearly, informing the man about his place in his eyes had been long coming. He continued staring at the people passing by his window, contented about what he’d done.

Jealousy was a strange feeling, another one he couldn’t quite grasp. Victor had been jealous just now. Almost everyone seemed to be prone to it; jealousy and the envy that comes with it. Maybe, he’d felt them at one time as well, and just didn’t know what they were named. Who could he be envious of?

Mycroft seemed to be the only logical possibility. Did he wish he could have made people do whatever he wanted? No, he didn’t much care for it. His own skill was much more useful, and he could already get people to do what he wanted by sheer charisma. The only problem was Mycroft being more powerful than him. It’d be alright if he was a lesser angel, or plain didn’t exist. Perhaps, he was envious of his less-involved lifestyle. No one bothering him with their small issues, nothing expected of him. Yet, he knew he could have that life if he wished. He didn’t choose to live like that, because he would possibly wither and die of inaction in one week.

Of course, there was a limit to everything. For example, John lived a life of nothing but action. He didn’t only feel, he did nothing but feel, and let that rule him. That is what every demon did in essence. They had no limits, no rules. Sherlock had rules, nothing imposed on him by others, but rules that he’d created for himself. As far as he knew, even among the angels, he was singular. Yes, demons were known to have no boundaries, but most angels were really no different. They were only - for lack of better word - less evil.

He sneered at himself for even thinking of the word; evil. There was no such thing. Perhaps, John didn’t enjoy all the _evil_ deeds he did. They were only methods to get what he wanted. He just didn’t care about the collateral damage. He’d had sex in front of Lestrade, unbeknownst to his partner. Had he enjoyed taking advantage of the stupid woman or was it just a consequence he hadn’t concerned himself with? It was appalling, of course. He wasn’t jealous, no. He was only outraged on behalf of the stupid but unsuspecting human.

He still had to admit one thing: outrage, anger; it was another feeling. He couldn’t deny having felt it thanks to his interaction with John, and more recently, with Victor. Maybe, he’d fallen. He laughed out loud at the idea. He’d make a fine fallen angel.

“What’s so funny,” a smiling voice asked this time.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” He smiled back at his landlady, who was fluffing the cushions of his sofa.

“You didn’t even hear me come in, did you?”

Sherlock only tilted his head in response.

She let out a hearty chuckle. “You are a silly boy.”

He furrowed his brow. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m about three thousand years older than you.”

“Yes, but you’re still a silly boy.”

 

Sherlock watched her as she made her way around the flat, picking up things and tidying as she went.

_I wish he’d find someone. He’s always alone with his thoughts._

He smiled at Mrs. Hudson’s desire, then starting as he realized what that meant. He was fond of her. He felt affection. He schooled his face back to its stoic form, so it wouldn’t give away anything if she happened to turn around. An elderly human lady getting to Sherlock Holmes... It’d be a scandal, if anyone knew.

Victor would certainly want some and nothing good could come of that. Why had he ever let him cling on to him in the first place? Of course, from another perspective, the question could also be: Why was he disgruntled by it now after so many years? Where had all these feelings suddenly come from? Where had they been until now, if he was capable of them? He let out a growl, frustrated at being wrong-footed at something for the first time in his life.

“Have you turned into an animal now?”  Mycroft’s infuriating voice cut into his shaky thoughts.

Sherlock turned to see him entering his flat with a dark-haired, pale-skinned, harsh-looking woman. He swiftly rose from his seat, not wanting to have anything to do with his manipulative bastard of a brother. He wrapped his coat around himself and pushed in between the duo to go anywhere else.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to run. You’re not my prey.” Mycroft laughed behind him as he let himself out on to Montague Street.

 

After some time, he realized his feet had taken him where they always did; to Baker Street. He didn’t have any way to kill John yet nor did he have anything to say. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He hauled himself up to the first floor of the abandoned building across from his to keep an eye on him.

The curtains of his flat were open and the light was on. He could see John puttering around in his flat, strangely, tidying up. Why would a demon tidy up? He saw the moment John noticed his presence. He turned slightly to his left to peek at the flat across the street, to where Sherlock was crouched by the window. However, the peek was really a short one even by peeking standards. After what seemed like a small wince, John carried on with his business as if he didn’t know Sherlock was there, watching him.

He tidied, sat alone on his tattered chair by the fire, drinking, he ate a dinner for four by himself, surprisingly read something Sherlock couldn’t decipher from the distance between them; however, he didn’t glance at the angel once. Eventually, he stood up to answer the door and pounced on the man that arrived as soon as he entered the room. Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of them. He watched as John fucked the man - there was certainly no other word for that act. He’d seen everything else, and John was putting on a show for him, so why turn away?

It was strangely fascinating, yet, at the same time, it made him feel - something else; something he didn’t want to name, something he didn’t want to consider. He’d been practicing introspection for who knows how long, and he’d had enough of it to last him for a couple of centuries. Yes, he knew he was proud, he knew he felt anger, and he knew he felt affection. There was no reason to add any more feelings to the list. For once in his life, he was perfectly content with not knowing.

 


	5. The Summoning of Mephisto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel, a demon, and the devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I hope you've been enjoying the story so far. Thanks for all the kudos and the comments! Any kind of criticism is always welcome!
> 
> For any British readers I may have; I'm looking for a Britpicker. So if you're interested, please send me a message [here.](http://lar3000.tumblr.com/)

It was not in Sherlock’s nature to give up. He was persistent to the point of unwavering, unwavering to the point of stubborn, stubborn to the point of rigid. He refused to believe he was at a dead-end, no matter how many times he failed. It was habit now; a visit to Baker Street to try and kill John almost every week, as if he was a human going over to a friend for some tea. In fact, it was almost exactly like that since John did actually offer him tea each time. After the first few times of indignant refusal, Sherlock had got used to it, and now, it was customary to enjoy a cup of tea sitting across his mortal enemy right after attempting to end his life.

“That is no reason to be uncivilized,” John had responded when Sherlock pointed it out. His usual grin had been plastered on his face, daring the angel to dispute how well-mannered he indeed was. And well, Sherlock couldn’t.

The burning fire inside him didn’t bother him as much anymore, either. It was almost normal for him to acknowledge feeling certain things now. It’d be comical if he’d turned a blind eye to the fact that he was constantly filled with a hatred that refused to take a backseat in his mind. It wasn’t like the dim affection he felt for Mrs. Hudson, or his pride that reared its head from time to time. It was ever-present, ever-felt, stirring him to take action. He was always looking for ways to kill John; away from the outside world, away from the people he usually saw - unless they came to bother him - and away from his work.

 

Victor annoyed him the most. Even after what had transpired, he hadn’t given up on whatever he thought he could have with Sherlock. The things were mostly back to normal, however. The man had learnt not to question him or to bring up John. However, this did not produce the results one would expect. Most days when Victor visited, they ended up talking about John anyway. Sherlock’s mind was stuck on the demon and seemed unable to process anything else.

“I can’t stand him, Victor. I wish Moriarty was here instead. Seeing Moriarty every day for the rest of my life would be better than spending one minute in _his_ presence.”

“He suggested I should try and live a little! Me! Can you believe it? He should see Mycroft. I’m not the one who needs to learn how to live.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Victor! How can an angel be tainted? If you were going to regret killing a demon in the morning, then you should’ve either learnt how to handle stimulants or stopped taking them. An angel should be in control. You’re no demon. I mean, look at John. He’s got no authority over his own actions. It’s pathetic how he practices whatever his urges plant in his mind. They take over his thoughts and leave him a senseless idiot. Do you want to be like him?”

“He’s stupid, and I hate him.”

 

The rare times Mycroft popped over to ostensibly check up on Sherlock, the conversation was more two-sided, however, the topic remained the same.

“Do you realize you haven’t left your flat in three years except to see John Watson?”

Sherlock snorted. “Three years. Why are you counting?”

“It’s useful.”

“Don’t worry, brother dear, I’m not dying anytime soon. If anyone’s dying, it’ll be John.”

“Yes, John. When should I arrange for his funeral, then? Are you free on the twelfth of never?”

Sherlock ignored the jibe. “I don’t think there’ll be enough of him left to hold a funeral when I’m done.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “How is our demonic friend doing these days?”

“He’s marvelous. He’s been making nothing but Earl Grey lately. I think I regret not having killed the Earl before he could try the damn tea - or whoever gifted it to him. Either way would have been fine.”

“Sounds domestic.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft.”

“How much time do you spend in his flat, Sherlock?”

“What does that matter?”

“Nothing, brother. I was just curious.”

 

Sherlock talked about John to Mrs. Hudson as well. However, the woman had no idea John was a demon and thought that Sherlock was lovesick and complaining was the only way he knew how to show it.

“Dear, why don’t you just talk to the boy?”

“I do talk to him, Mrs. Hudson.”

“No, I mean - why don’t you _talk_ to him?”

Sherlock looked at her blankly.

“Tell him he’s always on your mind.”

“I think he knows that.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I thought, maybe, he felt the same.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think he hates me. Heaven knows why. I certainly give him enough reason.”

Mrs. Hudson let her head fall in exasperation and sighed.

“What?”

“Nothing, my dear boy. Nothing.”

 

Greg Lestrade was the last one of the people who maintained Sherlock’s feeble connection to the outside world. He came over to ask for help when he was in a bind and Sherlock helped if he thought the trouble was interesting enough. Of course, that had been before John Watson. Greg still came over to try his luck, however, he was now sent on his way even when the case was a nine or a ten. He knew not to bother anymore, but something he’d seen in the paper today needed to be addressed, so he decided to brave the fury that had become a constant in Sherlock.

When Mrs. Hudson opened the door for him, Greg nodded to her and quickly made his way towards Sherlock who was lying on the floor with a book on his lap. His eyes were closed, but Greg knew better than to think he was asleep. He looked around the mess that was the angel’s living room. The floor was invisible beneath piles of books, and all sorts of odd things that looked like tools weaker angels used for spells.

“Sherlock?” he tried.

When the angel didn’t respond, after a pause, he started talking anyway.

“Sherlock, what are you doing? Here I was thinking you’d become a recluse like your brother and hadn’t left the flat for 10 years and now I see this.”

He cracked the paper in his hand like a whip.

 

Sherlock opened one of his eyes to see what had got Lestrade so agitated. He eyed the headline that read _Scandal! Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Seen Together_. Underneath, there was a picture of John showing Sherlock out of his flat. Strangely, Sherlock was smiling at the man. He didn’t remember smiling at John - ever. Why was he smiling?

“Sherlock,” Lestrade cut into his reverie.

He slowly sat up on the floor and looked up at his colleague.

“Yes?”

“What is this?”

“What it looks like. Me, coming out of John’s flat.”

Lestrade sighed. “This is a common occurrence, I gather. This woman, Kitty Riley has been following you for months, apparently.”

Sherlock nodded.

“About a hundred people asked me what you were doing with him since I woke up this morning. Sally asked if you’d finally succumbed to old age.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Sherlock, I don’t presume to know what your intentions are. But when I said to coexist with him peacefully, I didn’t mean become chums. Are you alright?”

 

The angel dropped his head to the book in his lap and as his gaze caught something, Greg knew he was forgotten. The next words out of his mouth were not the most advisable, even if they were enough to grab Sherlock’s attention.

“I know he’s stronger than me ‘cause I can’t foresee the crimes he commits. What is your problem?”

When Sherlock’s head snapped up with a fierce look in his eyes, he knew he’d hit the spot. Sharing his specialty was certainly enough of a head-turner but insinuating something was wrong with Sherlock Holmes was done even less frequently. However, he was no coward. He inched towards the man and pushed a few of the books away before he sat down next to him. The angel seemed uncharacteristically worn out.

“So that’s what you’ve been doing,” He looked around to indicate the volumes around them. “Trying to come up with a way to kill him.”

Sherlock looked down at the open pages again.

“This is not good, Sherlock. It’s been ten years. You have to stop. Maybe, we can come up with something togeth-”

“I’ve got it!” Sherlock cut him off by throwing the book on the floor and pushing himself to his feet. He was such a whirlwind that before Greg knew what was happening Sherlock had put on his coat over his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt and had left.

Greg examined the book that Sherlock was reading before he escaped like he was running for his life. His jaw dropped when he saw what had got the man so excited. He scrambled after Sherlock like a wild cat chasing his prey.

He was out of breath when he caught up to Sherlock’s long strides. He called after the crazed angel, but the man didn’t even hear him in his hurry. Eventually, he got close enough to grab his wrist, but Sherlock turned fractionally to see who it was and then tried to snatch his hand out of Greg’s grip. However, Greg was holding on for dear life.

“Let go, Lestrade!”

He wiggled his wrist to set himself free. Greg grabbed his arm instead.

“Sherlock, don’t do this. Please.”

“I said let go!”

Sherlock shook him off and sprinted away from him. Greg followed, determined to make the man listen.

“Sherlock! You’re going to kill yourself! It’s not worth it!”

The man suddenly stopped, almost making Greg crash into him.

He spoke with his back still turned away from the other angel.

“Not worth it? Not worth it?” He laughed maniacally. “Oh, it’s worth it, alright. But don’t worry, Lestrade. It won’t cost me my life, only my soul, and we both know the concept is wasted on me.”

He made to walk away, but Greg’s fingers were around his wrist once again.

“If you don’t let go, you will pay for it,” he growled.

Greg stood, steadfast, his feet planted steadily on the ground.

“I won’t let you, Sherlock. I’m your friend-”

“I will kill you.”

“No, you won’t.”

It felt to Greg like his breath was stolen from his lungs when Sherlock spun around slowly to face him. The angel’s eyes were slowly turning white, and he was staring directly into Greg’s eyes. He let go of the man like he was burnt. Sherlock turned around and stalked in the direction of John Watson’s flat, leaving behind a speechless and terribly hurt Greg Lestrade.

 

Sherlock stormed into the flat only to realize the lights were off and nobody was home. There was nowhere to direct all the bottled up energy inside him. He started pacing the room that was so familiar now. He’d been spending all his time either here or at his own flat recently - granted his definition of recently was a bit off according to most people. He threw himself down on his chair - the leather one - and stared at John’s, tapping his foot on the floor, anxious in a way he’d never before been.

Barely ten seconds had passed when he jumped up and started touching things in the room. There was a knife stuck on the mantelpiece. He touched its hilt and it fit right into his hand. He imagined John pinning it there with his tiny hand that wouldn’t even cover the whole thing. He pulled the knife out of the wood and juggled it as if he was playing with a squash ball.

The mantelpiece - a collection of morbid things apparently - also housed a skull of a poor sod. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of keeping a trophy of one of his kills like this. If nothing else, John was very creative.

“Hello, I’m Sherlock. Are you bored here? No, I imagine you’re not. You probably witness all sorts of exciting things living with that man, don’t you?”

Just as he was preparing to sit down and start pouring out all his tension to a relic of a dead man, he felt the presence he’d been waiting for and heard footsteps outside the door.

 

An old war song drifted upstairs in John’s jolly drunken voice, getting louder as he climbed the stairs home.

“Uns're beiden Schatten sah'n wie einer aus;  
daß wir so lieb uns hatten  
das sah man gleich daraus.  
Und alle Leute soll'n es sehn  
wenn wir bei der Laterne-”

He came to a sudden stop as he opened the door. His eyes widened when he noticed Sherlock sitting in his leather chair.

“Sherlock. How nice to see you here, my friend.”

The angel had managed to surprise him for the first time in their thorny relationship. However, it was safe to say Sherlock was even more surprised. Yes, he knew that John got up to bad things, but seeing him with the proof of his actions was strangely disconcerting.  The demon was covered in blood from almost head to toe, drunk to the point of passing out even with his strong constitution. He threw himself on his chair with the last of his energy.

“You look tired.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Have you seen yourself?”

John grinned. “This is not ‘tired’, Sherlock. This is ‘enjoyed himself so much now he deserves a rest’”

“Same difference.”

“I beg to differ. Although, you really ought to have some shut-eye. You work yourself to the bone, mate.”

“I don’t have _shut-eyes_.”

John let his head fall back and closed his eyes as he hummed. “God, I wish my bedmates were like you. They’re all so boring.”

Sherlock pretended to ignore the, by now usual, come on, even though every sexually charged word that came out of John’s mouth lit a fire in his belly.

“You don’t look like you’re very bored.”

The demon opened his eyes to look directly into Sherlock’s soul he was about to give up.

“Believe me, I am very bored.”

The two men stared at each other for a long while, entranced. Sherlock eventually broke the tension to let John know why he was there.

“It’s just as well, I suppose.”

John raised a quizzical eyebrow at the angel. “Hm?”

“That I can guarantee you will never be bored again. Well, you will never be much of anything again.”

A corner of John’s mouth quirked up. “Oh. Is it time for our weekly date again? Go ahead, my love. What do you have up your sleeve this time?”

Sherlock straightened and his expression turned serious. “John, please understand, I would sell my soul to the devil to kill you.”

“If he existed.”

Sherlock gave a slight nod. “Indeed. Since he doesn’t, I’ve thought of another use for it.”

 

He locked his eyes unto John’s who never avoided the fierce gaze of the angel, and before he started chanting he opened his mind to the demon’s to hear him one last time.

_He can’t have found something. He’s always failed so far. Why should it be different this time? But he looks more certain. He’s always been confident but this-_

Sherlock grinned at the panicked man, letting him taste his own medicine, which agitated John even further in his drunken state.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God. He’s grinning. He never grins. What’s he saying?_

John’s eyes popped wide open as he discerned some of what Sherlock was saying in Assyrian.

_He’s talking about his soul. He wasn’t kidding. His soul. He’s sacrificing his soul. What if it works? I have to- I have to- I can’t let him…_

John’s thoughts drifted into silence as he made his decision. Sherlock was almost at the end of his incantation when he saw the demon’s eyes start to transform into little black holes. Just as he uttered the last word, the void completely took over John’s usually dark blue orbs.

Quarter of a second later, both men were back in their seats with both their jaws hanging open. They stared off into the distance for hours, rattled but not for the same reasons. Sherlock, who had been quite sure this spell would work, was already over it and was now contemplating the fact that he had finally got John to turn on him. And he’d survived. John couldn’t kill him either. He’d never heard of a similar situation before; an angel and a demon stuck at a deathmatch with no way out.  One would always, always be more powerful, no matter what. It was a certainty. This anomaly meant something, he knew. Now, he had another lead to follow.

John, on the other hand, was going through the biggest whiplash of the millennium. His eyes had never failed him before. Sherlock could hear his thoughts off in the distance even without concentrating on them. He felt John empathize with how he’d made the angel feel when they first met. He understood now why Sherlock was so obsessed with not just him as a person but killing him. It was like the rug being pulled out from under you, only the rug, in this case, was the ground itself.

He was completely sober now and Sherlock could hear him trying to come to grips with how he had tried to kill the angel. Eventually he started thinking out loud, when both men had calmed down enough.

“You know, I’ve been after you for too long.”

“Here I was thinking it was the other way round.”

“To fuck you, I mean.”

Sherlock ducked his head, blushing. “Oh.”

John laughed. “I guess I thought the prospect rather bleak at that moment. And without the hope of sex, your presence is rather vexing, Mr. Holmes.”

The angel sighed. Hearing this from John was for some reason different than hearing it from everyone else. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s after all how everyone regarded him, yet he couldn’t help it. John had only tolerated him for the dim hope of sexual conquest, not because he found him interesting.

“Now, if we’d had sex, I’m sure I’d have willingly gone.”

Sherlock turned his gaze at a thoughtful looking John Watson.

“What’s wrong with you?”

John just grinned.

“Even a demon should have self-respect, at least enough not to proposition an angel. I’ve never even heard of a myth of an angel and demon having-” he paused and cleared his throat. “Sex,” he pushed out finally.

The corners of John’s mouth were reaching his ears by now.

“That doesn’t mean I have to follow in everybody else’s footsteps. I’d like to think of myself as a pioneer. Now, I know you’re very stubborn but I’m not less so. You’ve been working day and night for years for your goal, and well, let’s just say I’m determined to have my prize as well.”

The man leant forward and held up a bloody hand to touch Sherlock’s prominent cheekbone. The angel flinched and jumped out of the chair.

 

He ran out of the flat, off of Baker Street, back to his flat as quickly as could, his body burning all over. His cheek felt especially hot and would have been painted red, even if there was no blood on it to hide his normally translucent skin.

In his bedroom, he stood across from the mirror, staring at his unwashed face and the stain on it. His mind was blank except for one thought repeating itself over and over.

_Why is he so sure of himself?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For interested readers; the song John sings is a World War I song called 'Lili Marleen'.


	6. Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has something up his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear friends,
> 
> Just a reminder before you start this chapter, my tags and warnings are always accurate! So it is correct that no archive warnings apply.
> 
> Enjoy!

John was sure. He’d been onto something for a while now, and this was the last step; he finally had the incantation in his hands. He didn’t know what he expected of it, not exactly, but if he could keep Sherlock Holmes from running away the moment he touched him, perhaps something more would occur to him. He secreted away the tome in the depths of his jacket, afraid that there was someone out there who could waylay his plans, and then made his way home to Baker Street.

 

    *                                              *                                                        *

 

He sat in what, by now, had become his chair and sipped the warm cup of Earl Grey in his hands. The cup was delicate, made of fine china, and was one of a kind. John always offered it to him, like a good host would do, and took the rough-looking mug for himself. Sherlock watched him blowing on his beverage as if such temperatures could hurt him and wondered what it would feel like to have his palms wrapped around the uneven surface of the other cup.

There was no need to talk. There was no need to do anything but sit across from each other, almost companionably. In fact, Sherlock had nothing to say. The man sat there, not realizing that he had no reason to be there. He had no new tricks to try out. He was simply having tea with the demon who had become his reason to live. He had scoffed at the thought when it first occurred to him, but when he weighed the arguments for both sides with a certain scientist-like detachment, he surrendered to the truth. He’d had nothing but John Watson on his mind for so long, and his life was lived in service to ending that of the demon’s. It was clear and simple when put like that.

And what would happen when he reached his goal?

 

Some time later, John opened his until-then closed eyes but he didn’t move his head from where it was laid against the back of the armchair. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“Will you run away again,” he murmured as he held up one hand like he was caressing something. “If I touch you?”

Sherlock didn’t answer for a moment, even though his first reaction should have been an indignant refusal of doing such a despicable act as running away. He took in the relaxed state John’s body was in and the wistful quality his expression carried.

“Will you?”

John closed his eyes again.

“I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”

Sherlock laughed.

“Really? I thought all you wished was to make me uncomfortable.”

The corner’s of John’s mouth twitched upward.

“I can see why you’d think that.” He lifted his head to look Sherlock in the eyes. “I thought you’d get used to it eventually.”

“Why would I?”

“That’s a good question. I’m not sure I’ve ever consciously considered anyone’s feelings before.”

“Neither have I.”

John smiled at him this time.

“There’s not much to consider, John. You shouldn’t worry yourself.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Pardon? Are you telling me who I am?” Sherlock countered, amused.

“Somebody has to.”

The smile slid from the angel’s face.

“And could you even see anybody else through the sea of feelings you’ve somehow not drowned in by now?”

John grinned.

“You think I’m sentimental.”

The angel huffed. “I didn’t say that. I said feelings. That’s what characterizes a demon, isn’t it?”

“And angels don’t feel?”

“I don’t.”

“So it doesn’t characterize demons, precisely. Rather, it characterizes everyone but you.”

Sherlock continued looking at him defiantly.

“Then when I touch you, there’s no need for you to recoil like a frightened cat.”

He was sure John was mocking him now, leering at him with his sly grin plastered back on his face again. He ignored the comparison the demon made to rile him up.

“Just because I don’t feel doesn’t mean I will let you do whatever you want.”

“That sounds like pride to me.”

 

They stared at each other, seemingly for eons, until John subtly leaned towards the angel. Sherlock watched him, not moving a muscle as the demon touched the back of his fingers to his pronounced cheekbone. When the angel did nothing, John got bolder and started moving his fingers slightly, caressing his skin like he had been the air at the beginning of their conversation.

Sherlock took care not to seem like he was spooked, yet his heart rate had increased tremendously, and he was left wondering if it was possible for angels to go into cardiac arrest as John’s hand trailed down to his long neck.

“I should go now,” he said, careful so that his voice wouldn’t crack.

John didn’t look like he’d heard the pitiful sound that came out of his mouth. He seemed transfixed by the whiteness or the length or something of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock gathered all his strength and touched the demon’s burning hand. He grabbed it slowly and put it away from his oddly also-burning body.

“I have to go,” he repeated.

John’s eyes flicked to his.

“Why?”

Sherlock stood up as quickly as he dared.

“I have things I need to attend to.”

The other man moved to block his way out of the flat.

“All you need to attend is here.”

The angel strode towards him to push him out of the way but before he could grab his shoulder, John stepped away again.

“You won’t leave.”

Sherlock scoffed but when he touched the door knob, he heard John utter something quickly; it sounded like gibberish. Unphased, he made to turn the knob but his hand wasn’t cooperating.

“What did you do?” he asked without turning.

He could hear the grin in John’s answer.

“I told you I would get my prize.”

 

He stood still, his heart almost jumping out of his chest as he felt John glide towards him. The demon put his short fingers on Sherlock’s slim hips. He waited a moment to see what the other man would do but when Sherlock made no move to remove the hands, he stepped forward to crowd him against the door.

John’s nose was buried in Sherlock’s neck now, inhaling, and his front was pressed to his back. The demon was shorter than him, so he could feel his erection - big and full - against the back of his thigh. His fingers were drawing semi-circles on Sherlock’s skin, his shirt already pulled out of his trousers without him realizing.

John licked his neck, and a gasp escaped Sherlock’s lips. The man leaned into his ear and whispered:

“Undress for me, Sherlock.”

Then, he was gone. The angel spun around, taken aback at the disappearance of warmth surrounding him. John was sitting in his own chair, his back to the door and waiting for Sherlock.

He slowly padded to the part of the room that was within the field of vision of the demon. There was no thought left in his head but John and what he wanted. Perhaps, this was his power, hypnotizing unwilling souls and taking advantage. But then, Sherlock probably wouldn’t have the sense to come up with even this feeble idea.

He stopped in front of the window but before he turned around, he heard John’s voice.

“Close the curtains. We don’t want meddling journalists to report this now, do we?”

He pulled the thick fabric closed as instructed.

“Turn around and take your clothes off. Slowly.”

He slowly undid the buttons of his already wrinkled shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. John was watching him with a predatory shine in his dark blue eyes.

“Beautiful. Now your trousers, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment but John interrupted his unformed thoughts.

“Uh uh. You can’t go anywhere. You’re trapped here,” He indicated the angel’s crotch with his eyebrows. “Trousers now.”

Sherlock felt like he was in a trance. He felt helpless. Nothing was stopping him. As soon as he slid out of his trousers, John was there. He took his hand in his, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was bent over the leather chair and the other man was sitting behind him.

He felt smalls hands caressing his cheeks over the silk material - a different pair of cheeks this time. All the while, he was panting harshly as John murmured sensual exclamations.

“My God. I’ve never touched something like this.”

He squeezed Sherlock’s arse gently as the angel moaned. This was overwhelming to say the least.

“And Sherlock, I’ve touched oh-so-much.”

John slid a finger onto his cleft, and Sherlock inhaled sharply.

“Do you like that?”

He put his whole hand between the cheeks and started moving it back and forth as Sherlock writhed.

“Oh you do, don’t you? God, if you only knew what a slut your favourite angel turned out to be.”

The name calling only served to turn on Sherlock further. He gave a loud moan and pushed against John’s hand and then the cushion underneath him. His cock was hard and trapped between him and the chair, and it felt incredible to create the slightest bit of friction.

John pulled away his hand and pulled off the only remaining piece of clothing on the angel, as he helped the demon get it off him. Naked as the day he was born, he waited for the hand to come back but nothing was happening. Sherlock turned his head slightly to see if he could leave after all, but he only saw the continuing grin and the manic eyes staring at his arse. He quickly hid his face in the soft leather of the chair.

“I should make a statue of you in this position.”

John did nothing but stare at him for a few minutes and then he spoke up again.

“Rub yourself against the cushion.”

Sherlock started moving tentatively, his hands grabbing the armrests. He moved back and forth, back and forth, until once again he was writhing with pleasure as his cock got more friction with each push and pull. His breaths were coming short but he could still hear the slick sounds coming from behind him. John was masturbating to his little show.

“Spread your legs farther,” the by-now rough voice commanded, and he obeyed quickly.

“Good. Good boy. Now, put your fingers between your cheeks. Yes, just like I have.”

John gave a short moan as Sherlock put his whole hand sideways on his cleft and started clenching his cheeks to the rhythm of his rutting.

“I think you’ve finally hit on the way to kill me, my love.”

He moaned again.

“Take away your hand this time, Sherlock. Just one finger, yeah. Go on, put it in for me.”

Sherlock had never had anything up his arse until that moment. And now, he was fingering himself for the entertainment of a demon he could not best. What was even worse was, he didn’t even consider these details as his finger went in and out of his arse in an erratic rhythm. He had lost himself to this, to John.

“Two now. And when you’re ready, three,” John directed.

 

Sherlock turned to look at him once more as he pushed the third finger in. The demon was no longer stroking himself. His hands were splayed on his thighs and his erection seemed like it was about to burst. It had turned almost purple with the torture he was putting himself through. He had stopped Sherlock from rutting as well. It seemed odd to the angel that neither was allowed to come. Wasn’t that the point of this exercise?

John’s voice eventually broke through his senseless thoughts and shattered them altogether.

“Enough. Put your hands in front of you.”

Sherlock did as told and folded his arms under his chin. John grabbed his hip with one hand once again after so long - how long had it been since they were at the door? - and in his other hand he was holding his penis. He nudged the angel’s cleft with it as Sherlock moaned. He slid it in between the arse cheeks and moved back and forth a few times.

“God, I can’t take it anymore,” he groaned before he pulled away and then pushed his cock into Sherlock’s hole in a swift motion.

They both grunted, Sherlock at the intrusion, John at the sweet pleasure. After a moment, John was pumping in and out of him like a maniac, panting and moaning as Sherlock did the same underneath him. One of John’s hands was on Sherlock’s cock, stroking him with a ferocious grip. All sort of dirty words were spilling out of his mouth which was glued to Sherlock’s ear.

“Sherlock, I’m fucking you,” Sherlock interrupted with a moan. “And you’re moaning like a whore,” Another one. “Look at you, gasping for it,” One more. “Come on, spill on to my hand so I can come inside you.”

 

A few more thrusts and Sherlock collapsed on to John’s now semen-covered hand. John was still pressed against him, trying to calm down after what was a long bout of sex even to his standards.

 

He separated himself from Sherlock’s back when he finally caught his breath and said something in the language he had done the incantation in. Then, he went to his bedroom without saying another word and shut the door.

A minute later, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, put his clothes back on and left quietly without questioning.

 

 


End file.
